I spotted Jack Charlton from the back seat of a car as we drove through the outskirts of Newcastle. He pointed out where he lived: a small ex-council house on a very busy road. He said that he would rather have the house a couple of doors along. This was a medieval stone building that had been transported brick-by-brick from York some centuries ago.
Just as our car pulled away I remembered that Charlton was in the same fishing syndicate as my father and his friend K. I wound down the window again to remind him. A flicker of recognition lit up his face as the conversation turned to his favourite pastime.
When we reached our destination I refused to go in the water, despite the enthusiastic invitation from my very reverend friend. Whoever heard of a ‘heated’ swimming pool deliberately set to the coldest temperature possible?